


que será, será

by SeasideFantasties



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, F/M, Healing, Talking, also if it's not made clear this is a modern!au of sorts, author guesses because author isn't revealing details about this just yet, bad things happen to Héctor AU, but the meaning still applies, so just liSTEN, song in title isn't spanish, this poor boy is really messed up and imelda gives him the hugs that he deserves basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeasideFantasties/pseuds/SeasideFantasties
Summary: Héctor believes that Imelda deserves better than someone like him- someone who remembers the little details about her, someone who can interact with their children, someone who isn't afraid of his own shadow.Imelda, thankfully, would beg to differ.





	que será, será

It all starts with those damned _videos_.

Because of course it does. He’s restless, that night, and no matter how much he tosses and turns he cannot seem to get to sleep, cannot seem to banish the thoughts from his head that he doesn’t belong here in this house, here with this family that seems to love him so unconditionally after all that’s happened. So Héctor finally pushes himself out of the bed with a groan after several long moments spent in silence, tries his best not to disturb Imelda- she lets out a sleepy groan of displeasure over being shifted, but doesn’t awaken, something which he heaves a quiet sigh of relief at- before heading to the kitchen of the house. He’s never been a fan of trying to drink his sorrows away, but maybe some tequila will silence the thoughts swirling through his head, the thoughts that have plagued him ever since his memories of why this family was so important to him returned. (And, he thinks, maybe the alcohol will keep him from experiencing the nightmares of the _cutting_ and the _testing_ and all of his memories being stripped away from him like autumn leaves caught in the wind-)

It doesn’t help, because of _course_ it doesn’t, and he knows that he’s a god-damned idiot for believing that it would as he stares at the amber liquid swirling around in the glass, resisting the urge to dash the blasted thing against the wall like a part of him wants oh so desperately to do. He feels anger at himself quite a lot lately, even though he knows that it won’t fix anything- it won’t take away all that’s happened to him since he was convinced to walk through those doors. But he has to take it out on _something_ , for how ashamed he feels day in and day out, and Héctor somehow knows that he would much rather be damned to whatever reaches of the Land of the Dead are the blackest and most desolate before taking his frustrations out on his family. Even though he doesn’t remember a good deal about them, he at least somehow knows that he doesn’t have it in him to be angry at them. Disappointed that they will not simply realize that they deserve better than him and go elsewhere, but not angry. Never.

But he has to do _something_ to distract him from all that he’s felt over the past few weeks, and that’s part of what leads him to take one of the discs that contain all their home recordings and slide it into the player in the main living area with a soft _click_ (or, at least, that’s what he’ll delude himself into thinking). Maybe these videos will light some kind of spark in his system where he’ll suddenly remember all that has transpired between him and Imelda, why Coco looks borderline disappointed when he says he can’t remember any songs that he used to sing to her. Maybe he’ll remember that he was once a musician and take up writing again, or he’ll be inspired enough to actually start making improvements in his recovery process and not be stuck as some depressed, scared, broken _thing_ -

Héctor’s fists curl at his sides reflexively as he watches the screen light up with colors, first showing what appears to be him proposing to Imelda. He tries searching the screen for any sort of recognizable features of _himself_ in this man who moves so confidently and bends down to plant chaste kisses upon Imelda’s hand and declares his love for her in a voice that’s as adoring as it is wavering with passion- “ _I want to share everything with you, diosa, I want us to grow old together, I want to make you smile and laugh every single day”_ \- but none comes. He watches as Imelda practically shrieks her approval, as the ghost of him takes Imelda into his arms and spins her around in a vibrant display of exuberance, and he feels so utterly detached from it all that he almost wants to scream. Everything seems so happy and joyful in the video, so unlike how he is now, and the fact that he can’t remember any of it hurts almost as much as the thought that maybe he can’t bring this kind of happiness back to his family.

_Idiota, this is only making you feel even worse, why did you think this was a good idea-_

“Héctor?” The soft voice comes from behind him, and he almost jumps, almost instinctively goes to bolt or search for the nearest possible escape route before he snaps back to himself and realizes who it is ( _idiota idiota it’s Imelda it’s only Imelda why are you so NERVOUS)_. His wife stands in the entrance of the room, her hair frazzled from sleep and eyes holding weariness along with confusion, seemingly not caring that her nightgown is bunched awkwardly in certain areas as she squints at him. After several moments she seems to realize that she needs to clarify what she’s doing there to him, straightening slightly. “You weren’t in bed and I heard the TV. I came to see if you were alright.”

“I…I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly, in a meeker voice than he would like. Trying to ignore the pang that goes through his system at the fact that he could have woken his wife so easily ( _you’re messing everything up again, you tonto, like you always do)_ , Héctor ducks his head and gestures slightly, as if some part of him is hoping that he can explain this odd behavior away so that she might be able to return to bed and leave this entire awkward encounter behind them. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought looking…looking at some of the _videos_ would help. But it’s probably an _estúpido_ idea, _s_ _í_?” He tries for a smile that he hopes is more humorous than self-deprecating, trying to lighten the mood but likely failing miserably. “ _Lo siento_ , Imelda.” He’s been apologizing a lot lately, but in his situation, who wouldn’t? Anyone who feels like as big of a failure to his loved ones as he does would likely be apologetic to the point of falling over themselves in a situation like this, especially if they felt as desperate to prove that they could be a functional member of society again as he does.

Imelda, bless her soul, doesn’t ask for further explanations or show any signs of anger. Instead she moves to his side, nodding slightly as she settles into a seated position beside him. “It’s not a bad idea, Héctor. You don’t have to apologize for anything, _mi amor_.” She leans into him, seemingly ignoring how he still tenses at the sudden touch even after months spent convincing himself that his own _wife_ wasn’t going to hurt him, and if there’s any sign of the clenching in his gut that he feels when she calls him such a thing in his expression at that moment, she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “I’ll watch with you, _s_ _í_? Maybe it will refresh my memory on some things as well.”

He wants to argue, in that moment, wants to be amazed at the fact that she’s allowing herself to be so close to him after he’s done so much to push her away in the wake of his frustration. He’s been borderline cruel to her as of late without even meaning to, angry over his utter lack of progress after months spent home with his family, and Héctor honestly wonders why she hasn’t been having a more hostile reaction to it. But he knows that getting into an argument with her at this hour of the night will hardly serve any kind of logical purpose- it might very well rouse Coco and Miguel out of their rooms, and the last thing he wants to do is try and explain his tangled state of mind to children, when there’s no guarantee that they will understand or even sympathize with his plight. So instead he mutters a quiet acquiescence, turns to watch the screen again. This time it shows Imelda and the man who might be him dressed in formal attire, Imelda in a long flowing gown and with her hair pulled back into an even more elaborate braid than the one she normally wears and he in a glimmering _charro_ suit that appears to have silver designs embroidered into it in an attempt to make it look more pleasing to the eye. They’re partaking in the _El Lazo_ ceremony, letting the priest wind the rosary beads around their necks with glimmering smiles on their faces, and it makes his heart jump to see it.

“Our wedding day,” Imelda murmurs beside him, and when he turns his head to look at her a content grin shows on her face. “ _Ah_ , you were such a flatterer that day. Calling me _diosa_ , your _sol y estrellas,_ being so tender. _Pap_ _á_ thought you weren’t going to get through a single word of your vows, you were weeping with joy so much. But you did say them beautifully, _mi amor_.”

Again, his heart clenches. “Sounds like something I would do,” he mutters, trying to get his thoughts off of the matter. “You…you look _muy bonita_ in that dress, though. I mean, you did. I mean-“ He searches for the words he wants, but they stubbornly allude him, forcing him to let out a heavy sigh and gesture hopelessly, inwardly cursing himself over his inability to simply formulate his thoughts coherently as any other man would be able to.

Imelda hums quietly beside him, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. “You said as much. You said the entire day was beautiful, that you wouldn’t have changed a single detail of it. That it was _loco_ to think that it could have turned out any better.” She huffs out a quiet chuckle as she stares at the screen, smiling gently at the images that dance across it. “It was a happy day. _We_ were happy.”

_Are you still happy?_ Héctor wants to ask the question so desperately, but the words clog in his throat, sticking like a piece of food that didn’t quite manage to go down the right way, and he thinks better of saying them. He doesn’t think he wants to hear the answer, anyway.

Instead he watches as the scene shifts to the young couple dancing together, twirling around the dance floor as some kind of melody plays- probably a traditional ballad, though the tune alludes him no matter how much he tries to grasp it or hum along to the few notes that he manages to comprehend. They seem to make it effortless, gliding around as though they walk upon clouds rather than the wooden surface of a traditional dance floor, and it makes Héctor long for that kind of confidence in his step again, makes him long to be that close to Imelda without flinching away from her touch and being afraid of what she might do should he allow himself to be that vulnerable around her. Before he even knows what he’s doing or can comprehend the possible repercussions of it, he’s speaking up in another meek undertone, words soft and hesitant. “I…don’t remember dancing like that. It looks…nice…”   

Imelda twists to look at him again, and her words are soft as she speaks. “We could try it again, _mi amor_ , if you would like.”

Before words of refusal have the chance to leap into his throat, before he can muster up the courage to say that it was only a stupid suggestion and that the two of them would surely be better off returning to bed, Héctor feels his mouth move without any kind of input from his brain, feels it say words that he desperately wishes he could take back a second later. “I’d…I’d like to, _s_ _í_?” _Idiot_. He’s an idiot for suggesting this, he knows it, and his mind screams it at him even as he gently takes Imelda’s hand that’s held out for him, letting her pull him to his feet and draw him into a slow and careful embrace (she’s always careful to give him room to pull away, should he need it, and he both appreciates her care for him and hates that he’s driven her to do such a thing). He should have just stayed quiet. He knows this. He should have just not said anything, but when Imelda looks at him so gently and asks so calmly, giving him full room to refuse, well…he can’t very well say no to her.

Besides, he thinks, he _needs_ to do this. He needs to prove that he can still be the man in all those videos, the man that provided for his family and loved them unconditionally and actually _remembered_ them, who danced through life without a care. He can do this. He can pull off something as simple as dancing with his wife, damn it, no matter how much his brain screams at him and tries to convince him otherwise in the moment. It’s as simple as following the steps. Surely his brain can manage to get _that_ much right.    

But his need to get it perfect the first time (for fear of what will happen if he doesn’t) leads to him stumbling over his own feet, biting back the curse that wants to escape his mouth as he fumbles against Imelda, and even though she’s quick to straighten both of them again and mutter a quiet _it’s alright, mi amor, take your time_ shame still manages to rush through him in hot waves. He’s messing everything up, like he always does, he’s disappointing everyone and staying stagnant and oh _Dios_ what if he never improves, what if he’s going to be stuck like this, stumbling over something as simple as _dancing_ and never remembering his family- Héctor looks at the room with the images both on the screen and on the mantle, images that contain the ghost of who he was, and suddenly it feels like the entire house is mocking him, like the pictures are looking down on him with accusing eyes, whispering that he’ll always be stuck like this and he’ll never recover-

_I can’t do this anymore._

The thought hits him like a brick to the face, but he can’t deny the truth of it. He can’t pretend like he’s fine, he can’t be the man that Imelda used to love so much, he can’t be a good father to his children- he doesn’t even recognize himself in any of the photos or videos, and the idea snatches the breath from his lungs in one fell swoop. Before he can do anything to stop them tears are springing into his vision, hot and damning, and instead of continuing to try and twirl Imelda around in a proper dance he stops and shudders against her, caught between hiding his emotions or releasing them for the world to see. It shouldn’t be affecting him this easily, he knows, but somehow he can’t bring himself to hold it in any longer. He weeps, his whole body shaking with the force of his sobs, and he feels rather than sees Imelda stop, reaching up to try and gently stroke the tears off of his cheeks. “Héctor? _Mi amor_ , what’s wrong?”

Somehow he chokes back another wave of guilt and the tears long enough to answer, but it’s in a voice so wavering that he hardly recognizes it as his own. “I…what if I can’t be the person in all those _fotos_ and videos? What if I don’t get all of that back, what if…” He doesn’t want to say it, but the thought escapes him anyway, the secret fear that he’s been hiding all this time. “What if I can’t make you happy anymore?” The words come out as a jagged whisper as though they’re knives lodged in his throat, but there’s no taking them back now, and even as Imelda gives a shuddering breath of her own Héctor continues, feeling like he has to justify his words as hysteria and shame overwhelms him. “I…you were so happy in all of those…those videos, and I just…I don’t remember much about any of this, Imelda, I don’t, but I _do_ know that I want to make you happy, and if I can’t do that then what am I here for-“ He breaks off, dissolving into sobs again as Imelda slowly and carefully draws him into a tight embrace, trying to comfort him in her own way.

“Oh, Héctor,” she murmurs against his shoulder, her hand tracing comforting circles upon the small of his back. “Do you really think that what you remember or not will make me love you any less?” Her hands come up to cradle his cheekbones then, gently but firmly forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You are the love of my life, Héctor, _mi esposo_. That will _never_ change. No matter what you look like, or what you remember of us, or anything else.”

“You deserve better,” he whispers raggedly, his voice still thick with emotion. “You deserve an _esposo_ who doesn’t keep you up with his nightmares every night. You deserve one that remembers your favorite color, or gets you pretty _flores_. Coco _y_ Miguel deserve a _pap_ _á_ that can actually spend _time_ with them-“ They deserve the man in all the photos, the one that dances through life without a care in the world and who isn’t terrified of his own shadow, who doesn’t have scars and trauma in equal measure, and it draws another sob from him as he thinks of how his family deserves so much _better_ than what he is now. “I just don’t see why you won’t just _realize_ it.”  

“Maybe I do,” Imelda murmurs softly, still stroking his face gently. “But I chose _you_. And there is nothing on this earth that will make me regret that.”

He wants to protest. He wants to argue that eventually she will come to regret it, that he’ll make some mistake that drives her away from him forever. But as she cradles him close and quietly begins to sing the song that the couple is dancing to in the video, her voice soft but melodic as she continues to gently stroke his tears away, Héctor finds that he doesn’t have the energy to do so. Instead he leans into her embrace with a soft sigh, taking comfort in her presence no matter how much a part of him still screams that he has done nothing to deserve it.  

It feels like there’s an ocean between the two images- the couple on the screen, and the couple that’s kneeling on the floor there, one half of it so utterly broken now- but for the first time in a long time, he begins to feel the tiniest sliver of hope that things will turn out for the better.


End file.
